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By the time Lynn rode up on the woolly mammoth, the once-noisy enemy camp was a wreck. Burning tents smoked everywhere. Abandoned supplies lay scattered. The most striking thing was the armor—hundreds of pieces tossed across the ground like scrap.
Full plate, three-quarter plate, half-plate, breastplates, mail shirts, and stacks of barding for horses. Shields painted with every kind of house sigil.
The picture was clear. Stannis had ditched every ounce of extra weight except weapons. His men had doubled up on the horses and run for Storrold's Point down the Grey Stone River.
Lynn sat motionless for a long moment, mammoth swaying beneath him, while wildlings shouted and fought over the loot. He finally snapped out of it, drove the big beast straight into the middle of the camp, and roared for them to stop.
He sent "Hunter" Harle to call back the fools still chasing downstream.
Stannis was a ruthless commander, no question. The second he realized his army was bogged down and the fleet at Hardhome might be in danger, he cut his losses without hesitation. He didn't abandon his foot soldiers or longbowmen—he abandoned the expensive, heavy armor. That decision had to hurt.
A single suit of knight's plate was worth several rich villages for a whole year. He had just thrown away hundreds of them, plus all the half-armor, breastplates, and horse barding. The loss was staggering.
"Tough bastard," Lynn muttered. "And a smart one."
He still ordered the wildlings to set up several picket lines in case Stannis had left the armor as bait for a counterattack. Ancient history—East and West—was full of that trick. Better safe than sorry.
By midday he was convinced the southerners really had run.
No point chasing them now. All Lynn could do was hope Tormund had hit Hardhome hard and fast, and that the garrison there had been small.
The captured armor had to go back to the Wall. It would change everything in the battles to come.
Stannis had basically paid ransom with it. Nobody could turn down that kind of windfall.
Besides, cavalry without plate were a lot less terrifying to wildlings.
Lynn doubted Stannis had spare suits on the ships. The fact that they couldn't even manage two horses per rider told him either the king was short on coin or the fleet didn't have the cargo space. That same shortage was why Lynn's people had been able to keep pace. If the southerners had ridden with the usual two or three remounts each, they would have disappeared days ago.
Time to head home.
The chase had taken three days. The march back to the Wall took barely one—even hauling all that steel.
The Free Folk had lost nearly five thousand in the whole affair. Only two in ten had died to enemy weapons. The rest were trampled to death in the panic at the tunnel.
Hundreds had been crushed right at the entrance. Inside the tunnel the Thenns later pulled out more than a thousand bodies, all dead from suffocation and being stomped.
The funeral pyres were still burning when Lynn's column returned.
The brutal lesson finally taught the wildlings some discipline. Clan chiefs now kept their people in line. They moved through the tunnel in strict lottery order, fast and orderly. Efficiency shot up several times over.
Some things you only learn the hard way.
Lynn handed the mammoth back to the giants.
He had planned to skinchange into one and use it to smash the heavy cavalry or stampede their camp at night. That would almost certainly have killed the beast, so Mance had begged Mag the Mighty to lend just one. To giants, mammoths were closer to family than livestock. It had been a big ask.
When Mag saw his partner return safe and sound, the giant chief let out a happy bellow that sounded like a broken blacksmith's bellows.
"Star—Star—" he roared in his thick, clumsy Common Tongue.
Lynn figured it was the giant's version of a friendly greeting and answered with a smile.
Truth was, giants weren't savage at all. Most were vegetarians. Their size and old customs had given even many wildlings the wrong idea, never mind southerners who grew up hearing bedtime stories about man-eating monsters.
Then Mag did something strange. He planted both feet, held his huge palms upward, turned slightly sideways, and gave Lynn an awkward bow.
Mance spoke up fast. "Quick—copy the exact same pose."
Lynn did.
Once Mag walked away satisfied, leading his mammoth, Mance explained.
"That's the highest gesture of respect among giants. Normal members use it for their chiefs. If you just stand there, it means you accept being the chief. Copying it back means the deepest possible friendship."
Mance grinned painfully at the memory. "I didn't know that the first time I dealt with them. I just stood there. Mag nearly punched my head off."
He went on, "Of course, Mag might actually be swearing loyalty to you. You saved every one of us. But I figured friendship was safer. No time to explain, so I made the call for you."
Lynn smiled. "I think it's perfect. Sincerity is always the ultimate move."
It took Mance a few heartbeats to work out what that meant. Then his face grew serious, like he had come to a decision.
"Ser Denys Mallister has offered to recognize you as king. It really is the best move right now. I believe the rest of the Free Folk would accept you as their king too. About our earlier agreement…"
"A king isn't a title," Lynn cut in. "It's what's in people's hearts. If the Free Folk want to call me king, fine. But they'll live by my laws. Anyone who still craves total freedom—no rules, no consequences—won't have a place in the kingdom I'm building."
Mance's face darkened. Lynn softened his tone.
"I'm not saying we abandon anyone. Just give me time to think it through."
"Besides, king, kingdom—none of that matters yet. Where's Ser Denys, anyway? He didn't run back to Shadow Tower to throw in with Stannis after we took a few knocks, did he?"
Mance relaxed a little at the change of subject.
"He's still at Castle Black. Probably waiting to see who wins so he can side with the victor."
Lynn laughed and pointed at the dog-sled behind him. On it lay a full suit of royal plate, the crowned stag of House Baratheon embossed across the breast.
"Then let Ser Denys get a good look at how the southern king was forced to strip off his armor and run like a whipped dog."